


Two Bits

by LadyNogs



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Facial Shaving, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scenting, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNogs/pseuds/LadyNogs
Summary: Geralt promised Triss he'd make himself presentable for the Vegelbud's ball, and visits a barber.He expected a shave - the kindness was just a bonus.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Two Bits

**Author's Note:**

> So I binged the Netflix series and decided I needed to play the games, at least, and here we are, 700+ hours of gameplay later, halfway through the first book, and a dozen new fic bookmarks.
> 
> This is just me dipping my toes in. I haven't written for years, and I'm pretty sure it shows, but here goes nothing.
> 
> My Geralt is mostly game-canon, with a hint of series-canon emotional repression, and just a sprinkling of fic-inspired anxiety.
> 
> Title is, of course, from the earworm.

The free city of Novigrad boasted many fine and varied merchants, from tailors to cobblers to herbalists and toymakers, but what Geralt really needed wasn’t something he was particularly looking forward to finding.

His face itched. Ordinarily, he’d take care of it himself, with a hunting knife and a basin, but he’d promised Triss he’d be presentable, which meant he needed to find a barber.

He hated barbers.

Letting anyone near his throat with a sharp blade made his skin crawl. Having to put up with the stench of fear the whole time didn’t improve matters, but the odds of finding a human barber who wasn’t at least a little afraid of a witcher were so slim as to be nonexistent. He was half tempted to just visit a bathhouse, see if he could get away with just a good scrubbing, but he knew he was stalling. With a sigh, he turned down an alley and made his way towards Gildorf.

The shop was small, with narrow windows, but the stoop was freshly swept, and when he stepped inside he was surprised by the lack of scent - most barbers, especially those who catered to the nobility, were an unpleasant melange of perfumes that were too strong for his heightened senses. This shop, however, mostly just smelled of soap and leather. The bell on the door chimed softly, and it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to being indoors.

There was a woman in a barber’s apron standing by one of the washstands, and she looked up and smiled brightly as he walked in.

“Good morning, Master Witcher!” She said brightly, and Geralt noted no insincerity in her tone. “Pleasure to have a witcher in Novigrad.” She set aside the broom she had been wielding and wiped her hands on the towel tucked at her waist. He couldn’t help the grunt of surprise, and her smile widened. She had good teeth. “Ah, not expecting a woman barber?” She chuckled softly, shaking her head, and turned back to the washstand. He could scent no fear sweat, just the soap smell and the leather of the chairs, and she had turned her back to him without hesitation. “I assure you, Master Witcher, my skills are at least the equal of any other barber in Novigrad. And my prices are a damn sight better.”

When she turned back, she had a strop in one hand, and a silver-handled razor in the other. She sketched a credible bow, though he could see the pride in her spine, and gestured towards the wash stand.

“Five crowns, for a hot foam shave, and ten for shave and haircut.” Geralt felt his eyebrows creep upward. She was charging less than half of the other barbers in the city. “And for a witcher, unscented soap and a locked door, that you might disarm more comfortably.”

“That’s considerate of you, Miss…?” He let his voice trail upward.

“Anya, of Velen,” she replied. “My father was the ealdorman of our village for nigh on forty years. One of your brethren took care of a nest of drowners the summer I turned fifteen.” Her smile turned a bit rueful. “Papa would turn in his grave to hear it, but I was fairly certain that man was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.” She moved towards the door and flicked the lock. “Come now, take off that armor and let me have a look at what I’m working with.”

Geralt unbuckled his baldric with a sigh, setting his swords to the side, and got to work on the buckles of his armor, while the woman prepped the washstand. When he had divested himself of his armor, he dragged his shirt over his head and untied the band that held back his hair, shaking it loose.

Settling into the chair before the mirror, Geralt could see the wild streak of grey in the woman’s hair. She gazed at him without a hint of censure, eyes cool and professional, but she telegraphed her movements clearly in the glass, and when she turned his head her touch was gentle. He held himself still, willing away his instinctive flinch, and he saw something warm flicker across her face.

“I’d suggest an undercut, I think,” she murmured, voice quiet enough that without enhanced hearing, he wouldn’t have been able to make out the words. Geralt could hear her pulse - steady, slower than most humans around him - and the soft rush of her breath in her lungs. “And clean shaven, to show off that lovely jawline.” She paused, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “But that will depend on how long you can stand to have a blade at your throat, in the hand of a stranger.” Her smile was soft, and she slowly let one hand rest on his bare shoulder.

He flinched, startled despite himself, but she didn’t pull back, just let her hand rest on his skin until his pulse settled. Her palm was warm, and smooth, and he shuddered briefly under her touch, fighting the urge to flee.

“Been a while since someone laid a hand on you that wasn’t violent, I’m guessing,” she said softly. There was no pity in her voice, no scorn, just calm. “It’s all right, Master Witcher.”

“I apologize,” he said, watching her in the mirror. She didn’t flinch when he spoke, though most people found his voice unpleasant. She puzzled him - no fear of him, no comment on his profession, no hesitation to touch, no flinch when he spoke.

“No need,” she replied, and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re not the first man to sit in that chair and not been able to stand being touched by a stranger, first off.” She moved away for a moment, and he heard a bottle, smelled a good Toussaint red, and then she stepped back and handed him a glass. “Here. It’ll help.”

He took a sip - it was a very good red, smoky and rich on his tongue. She smiled at him.

“We’ll go slow,” she said, laying out her tools of the trade on the edge of the washstand. “I’ll warn you before I touch, and if at any point you need a break, just let me know.” Her smile turned a bit rueful. “Not like I have customers beating down my door.”

“Why’s that?” He asked, taking another sip of wine. Anya grinned, her eyes lit with mischief.

“Because a woman has no business in this trade, don’t you know? Better I should go be someone’s wife, pop out a handful of bairns, or go to the Passiflora and make my living honestly, on my back.” She snorted, fetching a pitcher of scalding hot water from the kettle on the hearth and filling the basin. “Never you mind, Master Witcher. I get enough custom to keep a roof over my head.” She soaked a length of thick white toweling in the water, squeezing it, and Geralt watched the muscles of her forearms flex. “Have some more wine, and lean back when you’re ready.”

With a sigh, he steeled himself against his own skittishness and leaned back in the chair, and she slowly laid the hot towel across his chin and throat. It felt almost sinfully good against his skin, and he couldn’t help the soft sound of pleasure. She smiled at him, eyes crinkled.

“Feels nice, yeah?” She held the towel to his skin until it began to cool, and then carefully pulled it away. “I’ll start with your beard, just shears, then trim your hair, and then shave. Tricky bit will be last, so even if you can’t stand it you’ll still leave presentable.” Her tone was still even, no mockery or even teasing, and he felt something loosen in his throat. He watched her take comb and shears, and approach his face slowly. “This all right?” She asked, and he nodded.

Her hands were deft, and the pull of the comb through his beard was gentle. She moved steadily, guiding the comb through and following behind with the shears, and he was able to stay still for her. When she had finished with his beard, it was closely trimmed, neat and even along his jaw, and she smiled at his admiring glance in the mirror.

“Now for that lovely hair,” she said, and she moved to stand behind him. “I’d like to comb it through - is that all right?” He nodded again, and braced against the chair, but when she gathered his hair in her hands, he didn’t feel the urge to run. With a start, he realized that she had slowed her breathing to match his - slower, and deeper, than most humans were capable of - and he met her eyes in the glass.

“Your breathing,” he began, and she glanced up from her work to gaze at him steadily.

“What of it?” Anya replied, working the comb through his locks. He could hear her pulse speed up, slightly, and he scented the air. Still no fear.

“It’s too slow.” He could hear the suspicion in his own voice, and nearly winced. She smiled, eyes on her work.

“Most people will try to mirror you,” she said, working the comb through a particularly stubborn knot. “It makes them relax, if I slow down. Most folk aren’t as aware of it as you, but I should have figured you’d pick up on it.” She reached for the shears. “The witcher who came through my village could hear my heartbeat, he said.”

“Mhm. Picks up whenever I speak to you.”

“You’ve got a nice voice,” she said, and winked at him in the glass. “I wanted to be like him, so I practiced. Just got in the habit, I suppose, and it’s served me well. I can outrun most anyone, if I have to.”

“Remember his name?”

“Of course I do. Eskel. Dark hair, lovely smile.”

“Pretty, hm?” Geralt couldn’t help his own smile. “I’ll be sure to tell him so.”

“Scars never bothered me, Master Witcher. Just shows you didn’t die.” Anya carefully tied back the top portion of his hair, and began slowly shearing back the underside of his skull. The snick of the shears was almost soothing, and the slow pace of her breath was an almost tangible relief. Her pulse stayed steady, for the most part, until he sighed, feeling the tension in his shoulders unwind. A spike, then, sharp and fast, and then a slow decline. When she leaned past him to set the shears on the washstand, he shifted almost instinctively, scenting her throat, and he heard her breath catch. Soap, salt, and musk - no fear, still, despite his sudden movement - and a hint of something sweet, perhaps mint. She set the shears down slowly, but didn’t pull back from him. She lifted her chin, baring more of her throat. “I’ll be still,” she said softly. He reached up for her, one hand landing on her shoulder, and she allowed the touch without flinching, letting him move her closer. Another deep breath, and he scented her again. Warm skin, earthy and clean, and the salt of sweat, and that musky undertone - arousal, spiking a bit at his manhandling, but not overpowering. Mint, on her breath, and something else, a hint of something sharp and hot, that he usually associated with shame. He growled, soft, and she sighed. The arousal in her scent spiked to match her pulse, but she controlled her breathing, and held herself still.

“You smell like lust and shame,” he said, and she chuckled, a low vibration that he felt in his chest.

“Always did like older men,” she said. “But I’m thinking you get plenty of that. Besides, you have plans tonight, else you wouldn’t be here, and you can barely stand to let me touch you. Just because I feel it doesn’t mean I have to act on it.”

He thought about it - thought about turning the hand on her shoulder into a caress, into pulling her down for a kiss. She’d let him, he knew - he could tell she wanted him, knew it was without pretense, without fear, and gods knew it had been a long time since anyone looked at him and didn’t fear him, didn’t pull away from his touch. The moment stretched too long, and she moved back, reaching up to cover his hand with hers. She squeezed his fingers gently, reassuring, and he let her go. The shame scent spiked, hot and bitter in his nostrils, and he saw her swallow hard before selecting a creamy white slab of shaving soap. The razor she stropped smoothly, her motions easy and economical, and then she dipped a shaving brush in the still scalding water and swirled it across the soap.

“Shall I do your throat first, get it out of the way?” Her voice was steady, and her face was calm. He nodded, and she began swirling the brush across his throat. It was warm, and soothing, and he leaned back in the chair to give her better access. He felt comfortable baring his throat - only fair, given that she’d let him scent her. Most humans found it uncomfortable, to know that he could read them by their scent.

Anya lifted the razor, and her hand was steady and non-threatening. “Moment of truth, Master Witcher.” He nodded, and she set the blade at the base of his throat, flat, so if he flinched she wouldn’t cut him. It was a kindness, and so welcome that he felt his eyes burn and his breathing catch. When he had composed himself, she tilted the razor and drew it slowly up his throat to his chin. It was smooth, easy, deadly sharp, and she wiped the blade and set it again with an economy of motion that spoke of long practice.

He breathed slowly as she shaved him, the blade gliding over his throat and Adam’s apple, curling smoothly over his jawline, and up his cheeks. She deftly maneuvered around his lips and nose - it was easy to relax into her gentle touch, easy to let her tilt his head to draw the skin taut, and he allowed himself to drift into something akin to meditation. When she had finished, she wiped away the flecks of shaving soap with another hot towel, and Geralt gave another sigh at the sheer pleasure of it. Anya chuckled, wiping down the razor and tucking it into her apron.

“Take a look in the mirror, Master Witcher,” she said, and he leaned forward to peer at his face in the glass.

It was a damn good shave - no stubble, no nicks. His hair was tied neatly back, exposing the shaved sides, and his skin was clean.

“Excellent work,” he said, and she beamed at him. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“You’re always welcome. There’s plenty in Novigrad that would curse you for what you are. But I’ll not stand that kind of talk in my shop, and you’ll always be treated with respect inside these walls.” Her smile tilted a bit, turning wry. “Want to finish the wine? It won’t keep, now that it’s open.”

“Why not?”


End file.
